


Magic Beans

by WinterDusk



Series: Have Tesseract, Will Travel [6]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Post-Endgame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 21:31:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20181052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterDusk/pseuds/WinterDusk
Summary: Sometimes it’s no easy thing to find an acceptable gift.A.K.A. What to buy the trickster who has nothing?





	Magic Beans

**Author's Note:**

> An indeterminate moment within the “Have Tesseract, Will Travel” timeline. Just a slice of peace and fluff. More or less.

Skin scrubbed smooth and warm, and flesh now soft as butter, Thor bids his brother and their travelling companions fair-travel and heads out from the public baths alone.

In truth, it’s a relief to leave behind the squabbles of Quill and Loki, currently viciously debating as to who more truly deserves the title of resident entertainer. While Quill’s music might carry to every corner of the Milano, Thor’s yet to see him hold an instrument to back up his claims. This, however, doesn’t seem like a point to make out loud; not if Thor wants a quiet hour or so.

Outside, the air is fresh and sweet, drawing the last of the bath’s damp from Thor’s skin. His scalp is still tingling from where, earlier, Loki’s fingers had combed back and forth through his hair before dividing it into careful braids.

Loki’s been getting elaborate with Thor’s hair of late. Though maybe that’s just an inevitable effect of the entire untangling process taking less and less time. An unexpected benefit of Thor expending more care upon his appearance than has recently been his wont.

But if Loki’s work on Thor’s head has become… excessive, then Thor is more than willing to rise to the implied challenge. It wouldn’t do, after all, to let his little brother be any better than him. Not at something so basically and fundamentally physical. Maybe if the work were done with the aid of spells it would be different… But with a comb and fingers and cord?

Besides, Loki can be brittle. More so even than Thor feels these days. And it is not unreasonable of Thor to suspect that, should his own plaiting be found subpar, then Loki will read far more in to that neglect than sleepy eyes and the start of a migraine.

Of late Thor’s migraines have been…

_But now is not the time to reflect on_ that_!_

Today is for good humour and for spoiling Loki. Hence Thor’s current not-too-subtle expedition. For where skill and energy run low, there remain the eternal fall-backs of better tools; more brilliant decoration.

It hasn’t escaped Thor’s attention that, since joining the Guardians, he’s spent more time in market places than on battle fields. More of his time in inns and eateries, too, though he suspects some of this is at Loki’s design. Loki’s and Quill’s. It will be a fearsome day when _that_ pair overcome their mutual mistrust to conspire together.

#

The local market is a charming place, though not one for the weak of stomach. Stalls occupy containers of regular dimensions, all stacked up, one on top of the other. There’s little enough unique in that. From the arcades of Midgard to the caves of Bat-Planet, Thor has seen such clusters of traders. Here, however, the browsing is enhanced by one’s ability to saunter, not just back and forth, but also straight up and down, and sometimes even in loops or whirls, dependent upon the foibles of the city’s artificial gravity.

The effect is often humorous; sometimes simply marvellous. And these days Thor’s trying, _truly_ he is, to appreciate such delightful moments. Appreciation of the finer things in life feels harder than it used to be, but, then, anyone struggles when they fall out of practice at a thing. So Thor stops on a long, soaring bridge, and tries to focus on the here and now. Not only on his breath, and the weight of Stormbreaker, but also the world that he _sees_ beyond.

His right eye flinches. Thor ignores it. Or, at any rate, he _tells_ himself that he’s ignored it; these days that’s as good as he gets.

So. What can he see? The sky, which is a delicate pink. And the earth, which is well coated with elegantly minimalist structures. A bird with long green tail feathers, who loops between two towering shops and then dips down, under the bridge before Thor.

Loki would like to copy a bird like that.

And still there’s more.

Currently he sees a youngling peering anxiously between their feet as a small balloon ‘sinks’ up into the sky; a trader passes flowers to her customer, who’s standing at right angles on her shop’s wall; and a pair of porters are throwing goods across a void. The goods arch through the air, apparently in freefall on a disastrous collision course, only to make, at the last instant and entirely against the natural laws of physics, a sharp turn to safety.

His mouth aches, and Thor realises that he’s grinning.

For it’s wonderfully enjoyable to stand here, watching the world spin by and basking in the pleasant reality that his life has become! Truly, Thor is-

Like that, his comfort is ended.

For one hideous moment, Thor can see this place not as it is – full of laughter and delights – but as it could be: crushed in a battle, or a terrorist attack, or simply by the accidental deactivation of the many force fields upon which it depends. There will be falling boxes; screaming beings; death-

He takes a deep, if juddering, breath. Closes his eyes. Strokes, both carefully and exactly, the fabric of the robe he’s wearing. A robe that Loki has given him. Something nice; something soft; something _good_. The clothing is both real and true; the screams he fears are not.

He draws breath after shaky breath. Tries to parse more truth from imagined horror. In the air he can smell smoke and, worse, dust. Which is not real. Not a sense of being here, now, for it is only a transposed memory. Here there are – Thor sniffs loudly – flowers. The florist’s flowers most likely, subtle with distance though the scent is. And any shrieks of children that he hears are of the delighted sort, not ones raised up sharp with terror.

The dread moment passes. Thor opens his eyes. The world around him is good. At peace. Beautiful.

Alive.

A small crowd has assembled around him, apparently torn between offering either help or the courtesy of feigning obliviousness. As he looks back at them, they start to disperse and wander on, expressions embarrassed. It doesn’t seem right, that they are so awkward in having looked upon him, when Thor had been watching them only moments before. It only seems reasonable that they might return the attention when he is behaving so… peculiarly.

Still, it’s a relief to see them gone for one solid reason: some days it is not possible to ignore the shimmer of red across people’s faces; the price he must pay to Hela for hope in another multiverse.

But that price is not so great a one to bear. Not here, on this prosperous planet. For once the numbers Thor is seeing are not so different from those death-times he’d expect if left to draw his own conclusions. Long, ripe lives that look to be full of plenty.

He smiles, and finds that his lips are not fighting to express a lie.

Then, as he is now stopped anyway, Thor makes the most of the opportunity to look around himself for more mercenary reasons, taking stock of his many gift options. Where looks to be the best place to start the search for clips and slides and other such trinkets?

Across the way there’s a counter laden with the bright and glittering, though when Thor draws closer he sees the materials have little more substance than his brother’s conjecture. Holograms, no matter how eye-catching, are unlikely to appeal to Thor’s magpie sibling.

A few shop-boxes over, and there’s a collection of fabrics, ribbons and cords. Their colours are vibrant; some are threaded with faux metallic strings, or else strung with gems, plastics or tiny little shells. Loki’s hair would look well threaded through in such a manner. Maybe if Thor were to try something of the like…?

Yet when he finds a stall with shells and bells, exotic coins and obscure dried flowers, all Thor can see is junk. He’s absolutely certain Loki would have _no_ interest in any such meaningless brick-a-brac. Better by far that Thor just buy him miniature knives to twine into his hair! After all, knives are to Loki as-

_Thanos. Loki. A knife in a grip that shakes and struggles as Thanos crushes Loki’s arm and-_

_No! _ It’s over. Done. Thor clenches his fists. Feels his fingernails dig in to the cusp of pain, before he remembers that he’s not meant to be hurting himself. That Loki would not like it. And that Loki is safe and-

Loki is dead.

“Hey?” A hand on his arm. Thor jumps, but the slender being, clearly not yet a full-grown adult, doesn’t seem worried. Or, more exactly, doesn’t seem _threatened_. For their tone when they ask “Are you well?” is certainly worried enough.

“Quite good.” Thor smiles. Backs up. “Quite, quite good. Just some, ah, indigestion.” He ducks into the next stall, which turns out to be a mistake. For this place is full of narcotics of a great many and varied types. As he stands there, wondering if he’ll look foolish to walk straight back out, another man joins Thor, eyes scanning the brightly-coloured display. He’s picking something out, wrapped in blue, when Thor sees the number across the shopper’s face plummet. It falls almost as fast as Thor’s spirit, and Thor’s reaching over with a choked off gasp, fully intending to prevent – by force if needed – a lethal reaction, when the shop keeper beats him to it.

“Not those, you fool.” The would-be-buyer’s hand is slapped away. “Can’t you read? If you’re not from the Red Moon or the Ringed one, than that’s not for you.”

“But-” the shopper whines.

“Oh, no. _I’m_ not going to be the one who puts you in an early grave. Out.” An imperiously pointed finger. “Out of my shop. And you, too.”

Which is when Thor realises he’s also being barred.

As he leaves the store, still shaken by bearing witness to another being’s near brush with death, his feet follow the man, hoping to see that he’s well. For three blocks and two bridges Thor dogs the shopper’s steps; just long enough to realise that he’s potentially coming off as a stalker. So he makes himself stop and wait and watch as the man fades into the crowd. The man never once glances back; he clearly hadn’t noticed Thor following him. And Thor never gets the opportunity to see if, one foolish choice gainsaid, the man’s lifespan is restored.

Thor hopes, denied that toxin, that it did.

He tries to return to his good mood, but it’s hard to ignore the sloshing of wasted adrenalin. Instead he’s left to flee his dark mood; flitting from one stall to another; striving to get back into the swing of browsing. But every stall brings another crushed idea. Maybe he’s going about this the wrong way? Maybe he needs to find something else to gift his brother?

Maybe searching out knives _wasn’t_ such a bad idea.

Save that, panic attacks or not, Thor wishes something… nice for Loki. Something fond and fun. With no edges and no ill intentions. Preferably something so innocuous that even Loki’s persistent paranoia can’t read scorn and mockery into the giving.

There’s a comb, on the next stall, that’s fair enough. It looks to have been crafted from sunlight and seaspray and, cradling it in his hands, Thor can almost imagine drawing it through Loki’s long hair; seeing the dark strands run free as ink across the tines while Loki lounges in some icy plunge pool.

They have combs already. And if credits aren’t currently the limiting factor in Thor’s calculations, then space must be. Unless Loki likes his gift sufficiently to coil it away in one of his pocket dimensions.

Thor actually has his eye on some hair oils – though Norns know that Loki will complain over any choice Thor makes – when he spots the answer to his quest and stills, relieved.

If this were an old bardic tale, the likes of which Thor had grown up on, the skalds would claim the object of his quest found in a plain box; probably forgotten behind a pile of other, more brightly displayed, artefacts. And Thor would instantly be aware of its rare and undervalued worth.

Life is not a fable. The harp – bright golden and apparently with all strings intact – is placed front and centre stage and, more to the point, someone else is enquiring as to its price.

Thor tells himself that the harp’s appeal just stems from the fact that he’s spent too much time around Rocket. Has absorbed some of his attitude, that if something looks expensive, then the Guardians should want it. That Rocket should collect it.

It’s not a great collection criteria.

Instead of wasting time over something that he knows nothing about, Thor _should_ back away. Maybe buy the comb, maybe not. But the harp is beyond him. He’s barely loaded a handful of credits onto his chip, for he’d not thought to purchase anything of great expense this day. And he has no goods to trade. Well, unless the merchant has an interest in Midgardian sunglasses, some left over beans from Loki’s recent planting exercise, or a small pebble collected on the Origan planet’s beach.

_Loki used to_ love _to act the bard._

It’s not even like Thor knows how to determine the quality of an instrument. Likely he’ll get it back only to find he’s selected something utterly unplayable. Loki will never let him live it down. It’d be like the oils. Only more expensive.

“No, thanks”: words more attention grabbing than any uttered by Laufey when Thor should better have turned his back.

“She’s a magical harp,” the merchant is saying. “Charmed by the angels of the Tenth Realm. Even their great goddesses can’t help but be soothed by her song.” But the would-be-buyer just continues to walk away.

“Magic?” Thor says. Can’t seem to help himself. “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in a trade?”

#

It’s later. Thor’s back on the Milano, and the Milano is back in space. More to the point, he’s in his cabin trying not to fidget as Loki lifts the lid to inspect Thor’s ‘gift’. It’s suddenly occurring to Thor that they aren’t, actually, overtly _giving_ one another things. That he was _meant_ to be looking for ways to pander his brother. Not buy him.

He feels hot with awkwardness, maybe even shame, and his fingers itch to reach for the comforting cool of Stormbreaker. Instead he fixes his eyes on Loki’s face and tries to find comfort in the red numbers there, spelling out the long days of his brother’s life.

Loki’s face is impenetrable. It’s an expression that should look like condemnation, especially when all that he says upon unwrapping the box is, “I see you’ve bought yourself a gift.”

But Thor’s beginning to get the hang of his brother again. Of the moods and the sarcasm and the misdirections. His shoulders relax. “Oh, indeed. The harp’s all for me; it’s the box that’s yours. I do know how you love squirrelling things away.”

Loki punches him in the arm. He’s not entirely gentle. Then he takes the harp from the box. His fingers are light, reverent. In that instant, Thor knows that this is a better gift than any comb or hair oils could ever be.

Gently, as though petting a shaky-limbed kitten, Loki strums the instrument.

He doesn’t grimace; Thor gives him that. No, it’s Thor who pulls a face at the sound. Loki is very carefully not meeting his eyes. Rather he takes a moment, adjusting the pegs, checking the effect, then repeating the little ritual.

Loki keeps trying to raise an actual note from the harp for long enough to drive home to Thor that the instrument’s a definite dud. It’s either that, or Loki’s genuinely hoping that his skills are sufficient to summon a song from even this failed excuse for a musical tool. Only after a sufficiently excruciating interval does he lay it aside. Thor wonders if it’s too late to walk away, hoping the harp-topic will be forgotten; another mistaken path in their stuttering attempts to be brothers.

Thor looks at his hands. Toys with the cuffs. Waits for the mockery.

“Well, it’s a very lovely box, brother. I trust that you didn’t pay too much for it.”

Thor shrugs. For at least in this respect he isn’t guilty, “Only a handful of beans.”

“_Beans?_” And at the note of interest in his brother’s voice, Thor looks up. Loki’s eyes have brightened, fascinated.

“Well.” Thor’s not certain how best to explain. “I suppose that I might have been guilty of a little mischief.”

“_Mischief?_” And _there’s_ the tone of Loki’s mocking, but then he adds, “Are you proposing that, _you_, the God of Thunder, tell _me_, the God of Lies, a _story_ that’s all about _trickery_?” He smiles, lips curved in sudden delight, and leans closer. His expression is all curiosity and intensity. “Do tell.”

It should be more unnerving than waiting for the verdict on the harp. Instead, Thor’s tension is suddenly gone. “Well. What you have to understand is…”

And so it is that Thor takes his turn at acting the skald. Loki curls up on their bed, swaddled in thick blankets, expression charmed. True, Thor doubts he shows up his brother’s skills as the resident teller of tales. Yet he regales Loki with his, admittedly amateurish, attempts to devise a sufficiently plausible and fantastical fabrication to win over a merchant of ‘magical’ goods. Thor can’t help but notice that Loki’s enjoying the moment.

And if Loki’s attention is caught here and there? If the numbers that mark out his fate flicker, now higher and now lower, with the plotting of his plans? Then for here, for now, he is safe and close besides Thor.

Sitting here, on this tiny ship in this vast and often-bleak universe, Thor finds he is content. For he can see the future again. And it’s not one written in Hela’s script upon the faces of strangers. Nor is it the cries and deaths and dust-choked vanishings of his fears. Rather, it’s a more pedestrian, homely sort of premonition.

That, in the days to follow, the harp will disappear; either vanished into Loki’s endless pockets or perhaps broken down by Rocket and Nebula for its components. The box will remain; maybe housing sprouting nightbalm cuttings; a home for the new things have taken root, and, at one and the same time, a subtle dig from Loki to Thor.

And that, each night, one or other of the Odinsons will fall asleep, safe and content in a dark universe, to the sounds of their brother spinning tales to lighten their rest.

**Author's Note:**

> I seem to write too much hurt/comfort and angst, perhaps because I find it pivotal to character development. But happiness and comfort and calm are also forces that shape people. These are the forces that this tale is about.
> 
> The next story though… Would you prefer more of this timeline or more of the young!Thor and young!Loki timeline?


End file.
